


Out of the Wood

by Nestra



Series: Michael Guerin Week 2020 [2]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Michael Guerin: Hufflepuff extraordinaire, Pod Squad (Roswell), guerinweek20, it seriously bothers me that Isobel's name is mispelled in the tag, mgweek20, tiny angry Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: Hunger drives the wolf out of the wood.
Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin
Series: Michael Guerin Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927573
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Out of the Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Michael Guerin Week 2020, Day 2 for the prompt "Aliens exist." Title is, according to the internet, a German proverb or a French proverb or an English proverb. *shrug*
> 
> Thanks to grit kitty for beta.

Michael was sent back to Roswell three weeks before the end of the school year, and no one cared enough to make him enroll. It took two days of lectures about Jesus and original sin for Michael to decide to spend as much time as possible away from the group home. But the sight of an eleven-year-old kid roaming around during the school day was likely to draw attention he didn't want.

After the first couple of days dodging through alleys and hanging out behind dumpsters, he found a foreclosed house and broke a window to climb into a back bedroom. Whoever had owned it left behind some broken-down furniture and a stained mattress. He put a couple of layers of newspaper down on the mattress before he sat down, and with his notebook and a cheap granola bar he'd swiped from one of the cabinets in the Jesus freaks' house, he was set for a few hours.

Back in Roswell. Closer to figuring out where he came from. He'd always sensed, looking up at the stars, that he belonged somewhere up there. But other than that, he knew frustratingly few things about himself.

He tried to write down everything else he remembered about his childhood before he was sent to the first foster home, which wasn't much. The pods. Two other children. Found on the road and taken to the group home. The first time he'd moved something with his mind. The first time he heard someone mention the 1947 crash.

Putting all that together—stars, powers, crash, pods—Michael thought there was a good chance he and the other two children had come to Earth in the crash and stayed in the pods for fifty years. It sounded nuts, but so did the fact that he could move things with his mind.

He decided on a plan: wait until school let out for summer, then go to the library to use the computers and find out as much as he could about the crash that had stranded him on this alien planet.

*

He didn't want them. He didn't want to know them or take anything from them, not even the brief brush of the girl's mind against his.

The boy and girl cycled away from the Foster Ranch property line, leaving him alone. Which was what he wanted, Michael reminded himself. He wrestled with leaving the food and soda where it was, but the religious freaks had him on bread and water in the latest attempt to save his eternal soul, and he needed it more than the rabbits and coyotes. Besides, he hadn't had those little powdered doughnuts in years.

He shoved three doughnuts into his mouth, and everything else went into his backpack, where he kept his notebook and any other precious possessions. Some of the kids in the group home would steal anything, given the chance. And if Michael defended himself, he risked his place. He had to stay in Roswell now, and get his hands on anything he could find from the crash—whatever the government didn't have.

He looked up at the stars again, waiting for one to call to him. Maybe his family would come back and rescue him. If not, he'd figure out how to get to them. And he didn't need anyone's help.

*

He wasn't going to that diner. He thought about it during those nights spent sitting on a fence rail, and he was sure. He didn't need to see them again.

A week and a half later, Mrs. Chandler left her purse unattended. Michael moved fast and pulled a ten out of her wallet before she came back into the kitchen. Little Nia, five years old, had already learned not to snitch on the other kids. Plus, she knew she could count on Michael to bring her some candy with the money he took. He'd save the rest of it until he could get to the bookstore. 

In Santa Fe, he'd had a few books of his own about space exploration and astronomy, mostly gathered from garage sale, but he had to leave them behind when CYFD pulled him out. At least in the bookstore, he could find something newer and more up-to-date.

He made it as far as the sidewalk in front of the bookstore before he gave in and admitted what he was doing.

The diner the boy had mentioned, the Crashdown, was bright and gaudy in a way that appealed to Michael. He'd smelled it from a block away, the mouth-watering odor of meat and hot grease. He didn't want to stand and stare in the windows to see if the boy or the girl was there, so he walked in with his back straight and his jaw set. He'd come to check it out, but he didn't need their pity or their charity.

"Michael!" he heard, almost as soon as he walked through the door. He didn't let himself wince at the attention the shout drew.

"I'm not staying," he said as he sat down in the booth, the boy on the other side of the table.

"That's okay," he replied, gathering the books and papers in front of him into a stack. "I'm glad you came. My name's Max, by the way. Max Evans. My sister is Isobel. She comes here sometimes but she had dance practice today."

"Whatever," Michael said. "I don't need to know what you do."

"Then why did you come?"

His bluff called, Michael was momentarily at a loss. "I—I was hungry," he said. That was what you did in diners, right? You ate.

"Do you want a burger? Or tacos?" Max started to reach into the backpack sitting next to him.

"I have money!" Michael snapped. "I don't need you to buy me anything."

"Okay." Max moved slowly, like he was dealing with a snarling animal that he didn't want to antagonize. "The shakes are really good too, if you want to split one."

Michael snuck a look at the menu that happened to be lying on the table, facing him. If he got a burger and fries, he'd have just enough money left over to cover half of a shake.

"Fine," he said, and tried to ignore the tentative smile that dawned on Max's face. "That'll work."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter as [@akaNestra](https://twitter.com/akaNestra) and Tumblr as [changingthingslikeleaves](https://changingthingslikeleaves.tumblr.com/).


End file.
